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<title>On the Jaw by FlyoutViolet (SleepySappho)</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26897071">On the Jaw</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepySappho/pseuds/FlyoutViolet'>FlyoutViolet (SleepySappho)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Widening Gyre [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Blaseball (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Esme Ramsey Does A Hit, Gen, Jaylen Angst, Jaynsgt, beanball no comfort</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 22:33:43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>929</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26897071</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepySappho/pseuds/FlyoutViolet</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Esme Ramsey welcomes Jaylen Hotdogfingers to the Charleston Shoe Thieves</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Widening Gyre [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1968349</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>On the Jaw</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Esme Ramsey is angry. No, she's not just angry. She's a storm of sound and fury, eyes dark with hatred, she is anger and vengeance made manifest.</p><p>
  <em>Moody Cookbook</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Elijah Bates</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Mclaughlin Scorpler</em>
</p><p>The locker room is already quiet when she sweeps into it, slamming the door against the wall, but even the last vestiges of awkward small talk evaporate as she stalks up to the newest member of the Charleston Shoe Thieves.</p><p>
  <em>Miguel Wheeler</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Boyfriend Monreal</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Frasier Smurgle</em>
</p><p>Jaylen Hotdogfingers turns at the sound, standing alone in the middle of the locker room, still wearing her Moist Talkers uniform, half-buttoned, face carefully passive.</p><p>
  <em>Murray Pony</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Dominic Marijuana</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yazmin Mason</em>
</p><p>The sight of her infuriates Esme, just <em>standing</em> there like she has a right to be there, a right to share the same space as them, after everything she's done.</p><p>
  <em>Sebastian Telephone</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Antonio Wallace</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Workman Gloom</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>WORKMAN GLOOM</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Esme doesn't consciously curl her fist. She doesn't actually make the choice to swing, but she doesn't regret it. Absolutely doesn't regret the shock of pain that shoots up her right arm when she makes contact, the <em>crack</em> as Jaylen's head snaps back, turning that smug, expressionless face away where she doesn't have to look at it anymore.</p><p>Nobody talks for a long time. Corn looks like he might want to say something, but for once in his life thinks better of it. Vel's 22 right now, thankfully, but still covering her mouth in horror. </p><p>Jaylen doesn't turn back, works her jaw for a few moments with a series of painful-sounding clicks. She reaches a hand up to gingerly touch the darkening bruise. </p><p>"Right." </p><p>"<em>You</em>—" Esme sputters, the usual profanities seeming utterly insufficient. </p><p>"I'm guessing this is about Gl—"</p><p>"<em>Don't</em>. Don't say their name."</p><p>"<em>About your friend</em>. You're not the only one." </p><p>"Yeah well I'm the one who's gonna do something about it." </p><p>Jaylen finally turns back, slowly, eyes looking through, past Esme, into the infinite distance. "Maybe we should do this in private," she says, jerking her head subtly in Vel's direction. She's shifted again while Esme wasn't looking, just a kid again, twelve years old and in the middle of her half-goth phase. </p><p>Fine. Vel's seen too much death already.</p><p>"Fine." Esme turns and stalks out of the locker room, not needing to check that Jaylen's following. She can feel those dead eyes on the back of her head. She leads then to the nearest unused room, a cramped office with no window and a battered wooden desk. Forrest's old office. God, <em>Forrest</em>. </p><p>"Close the door." </p><p>Esme waits for the sound of the door shutting before she turns around. Jaylen is taller than her, she realizes, with broader shoulders, dwarfing her in the cramped room. Maybe somebody else would be afraid to be alone in a room with a twelve-time murderer. Not Esme Ramsey.</p><p>"Okay, you got me alone. What exactly is your plan here, Ramsey?"</p><p>That <em>calm</em> is so much worse than any other attitude she could be taking. Like it <em>doesn't matter</em>. </p><p>"How about an eye for an eye?"</p><p>"You wouldn't be the first to try. It doesn't work like that."</p><p>"Yeah? I'm <em>persistent</em>." </p><p>Jaylen sighs, rubbing her eyes wearily like she has some kind of human emotion. "Even if you could, it wouldn't bring them back."</p><p>Esme's itching to see if her left hand can give as good as her right. "So, what? I'm supposed to just let you walk around here in our home, in <em>their</em> home, after what you did?" </p><p>"I'm not exactly thrilled to be here either."</p><p>"<em>Then why did you come back</em>?"</p><p>Jaylen leans back against the doorframe, shoulders slumping. She runs a hand through her hair, messy and sweat-slick. She looks <em>exhausted</em>. </p><p>"I thought I was the only one."</p><p>Esme doesn't dignify that with a response.</p><p>"Before the book, before <em>me</em>, this sort of thing didn't happen. I thought it was just me, and when they reached out… I knew there would be consequences. I didn't think it would be <em>this</em>." </p><p>"Would you still have said yes? If you had known?"</p><p>Jaylen closes her eyes. Running from the iron in Esme's gaze. "I don't know." </p><p>"You are so full of shit." </p><p>Jaylen doesn't dispute that, just opens her eyes slowly, staring into space again.</p><p>Esme steps forward, crowding Jaylen's space. Jaylen flinches, anticipating another hit, and Esme is <em>absolutely</em> not above admitting she enjoyed that. "Here's how it's going to be. You show up to your games. You pitch your innings. You leave. Outside of the game I don't want to see you, don't want to <em>hear</em> you. You don't come to the clubhouse. You don't come to meetings. Outside of every fifth game I want you to act like you did the right thing and stayed dead, until you flicker away again and you can be somebody else's problem. Understand?"</p><p>Jaylen nods. "Aye aye, Captain." </p><p>Esme jerks her head in the direction of the door. "Start now." </p><p>Jaylen holds her gaze for a moment more, then opens the door and leaves. Esme kicks it closed again before collapsing against Forrest's old desk, her hands shaking. She is not crying. She is <em>Esme Ramsey</em>, she has seen the beginning and end of time and <em>she is not going to cry</em>. </p><p>She fights past it, in the end, choking down the sobs threatening to escape her chest. She pulls out her phone, scrolling through to the first Philly player she can see in her contacts. She needs Jess right now. </p><p> </p><p>Jaylen Hotdogfingers goes looking for a place to stay in Charleston, alone.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
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